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This is the first question I ask in my Writing Trauma Without Traumatising Yourself workshop. It seems like an obvious question, but is the answer obvious? In some ways, of course it is. In other ways, this is a big question, one that requires you to put the question into the very thing you are questioning – your body. It requires a deeper, non-verbal answer. A kind of sensory knowing, a gut feel, an intuition.
What I mean by the question is, are you in your body? Do you actually inhabit it? Or, in the way modern life requires, are you half out of it most of the time; your mind engaged on the current quotidian demand, to the detriment of your own physical needs?
When we write, we use our bodies. Literally, by holding a pen, or typing. But also in the sense that we embody at sub-threshold levels whatever we are writing about. For example, if you write about someone in a frightening situation, some stigma of that fear is written in your own body. In your heart rate, blood pressure, muscle tension, pupil size, sweat glands and so on.
What, then, is the calculus of writing as an activity that occurs with and within our bodies, and modern life requiring us to live outside our bodies? Most of us lead a strangely split existence. One of alternating somatic hyper-awareness, particularly in the setting of disability, neurodiversity, chronic illness or chronic pain; and dissociation. I am not saying this to judge – I can write about it because I know this split intimately, and live it most of the time.
Most of us have not been taught how to simply be in our bodies. In fact, polite society requires us to deny or minimise the completely natural and miraculous processes of the body. Think of all the times you have stifled a yawn, or clenched to prevent the ignominy of letting loose flatulence or a burp (all signs of a magnificently functioning digestive system, by the way). And also for some of us, the body is a threatening place, one that holds difficult somatic memories, feelings, sensations.
Perhaps the first step is a collective unlearning. A casting-off of the corset so we may breathe freely.
“And I said to my body, softly, ‘I want to be your friend.’ It took a deep breath and replied, ‘I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.’” – Nayyirah Waheed, poet and author
In my workshop I cover Polyvagal Theory, the simple science of the Window of Tolerance (WOT). Here is a video by Pooky Knightsmith that explains the concept concisely. She has a whole bunch of other interesting and informative videos on the topic of trauma and the body as well. I have found the WOT to be such a helpful guide to tune into my body, and to give me a set of strategies to manage the disequilibrium I might be in. I hope to write more about this in the next post. This post is preparing the way. It is about building awareness of our embodied selves.
How do we learn that our body isn’t fighting us, but calling to us? How do we tune our senses inwards in a way that feels safe enough, contained enough so that we can listen to the simple message our bodies are giving us – sleep, rest, eat, hydrate, play?
Imagine your doorbell rings, and it is a friend. Would you not welcome this friend in, whatever their state of being? Would you not listen, ask how you could make them comfortable, then make it your priority to do that? Now what if this friend was your body? Can we see our bodies as our most stalwart companions on our journey through life, rather than a saboteur waiting to trip us up at every inopportune moment?
If we can make this pivot, and I know I am grossly simplifying a challenging task, perhaps we can make a start. What is possible for you in this solitary moment – how might you listen, and give your body what it needs, knowing it is just trying to keep you safe, even if it is giving you pain, discomfort, disability. I wrote about my own struggle to get there in The Hooghly Review’s Murals Issue, “The Demon Finds Purchase”.
And so, I hope reading this you have become somewhat aware of your body. Perhaps you paused reading to get a drink, or shift position, or fulfil some other need of your body’s. That is powerful and important, and I hope you can recognise yourself for having done that.
To finish, I’d like to share this extraordinary, humbling letter by Stephanie St. Claire, a brain injury survivor. There is such wisdom and grace in this, and so much we can learn from her journey.
Take care, stay safe, be well. Please feel free to contact me via Bluesky @pleomorphic2 or the contact page right at the bottom of my (wonky) website.
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